


let's make a toast (and kiss them goodbye)

by Elcie



Category: Original Work
Genre: Coping, Freeform, Gen, Moving On, Prose Poem, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, vent - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:40:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24166006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elcie/pseuds/Elcie
Summary: Two part poem/freeform venturing self-blame and moving on
Comments: 5
Kudos: 8





	1. the wrong i did (self blame)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some things you have to write in order to cope

They say that it’s easy to write about love when you’re in love, or about heartbreak when you’re heartbroken. About happiness when you’re happy. About hurt when you’re in pain.

They say it’s easy to write about something that you’ve felt, or are feeling at the moment. 

What I think they fail to mention is how messy the feelings are. Sure, being happy is typically seen as the way the sun shines down on a good day, but if you think about it, it’s hard to put into words the warmth you feel until you focus. Hell, that’s why actions speak louder than words. A smile is easier to convey than poetry.

And so was being in love.

I'm finding it hard to write about love when I'm heartbroken.

And it’s been 3 months? 4? Since we’ve broken up, I still find it hard to write even about heartbreak. The words just. . . close up in my throat and slice themselves into pieces that push it down deeper until I can no longer breathe. 

And, I'm sorry about it. I know I'm whole with or without you. But ever since you left, it feels like I’ve shattered myself and the broken pieces are still scattered around. Even when I pick them up, I cut myself up and drop those pieces again. 

I'm sorry. 

These feelings are hard to understand, hard to ignore. It’s love. That’s what it is. Messy. Feelings are messy. And I know you’re uncertain on whether or not you would have still said yes to me. Called me your girlfriend. Or be vulnerable. If you knew this was our ending. But I know, even if I knew that this is what would happen. I’d still have said yes. I’d always say yes.

Love is. . . Complicated. There are times when I feel like I'm moving on, where the echo of your name doesn’t haunt me in my sleep. But then there are times, I make one wrong move and I cut myself and all the pieces fall again. I know you’d be happy if I’ve moved on from you, you know that I cherish your happiness a lot. But sometimes. . . It’s harder than you think. Grief is difficult. It’s debilitating. It’s consuming. It’s a wreck. I'm a wreck. 

I'm sorry, but right now, I'm in a really bad place where my writing feels like canned soup and overcooked food. My dinner is stale on my tongue. I write on my arm, but it’s the same stupid love poem I can never quite spit out. I stare at the laptop screen a moment longer, convince myself that I'm a good writer. but my knuckles are turning pale from swallowing vodka bottles and gin glasses. when I write, the intoxication feels weightless.

I'm sorry, but right now, I'm in a really bad place where welts and bruises are poetry on my skin. blood is oozing out of my teeth where I last scrubbed your breath.

I'm sorry, but right now, I'm in a really bad place where your name is cheap wine and lemon spring time, and snow coated furniture you leave on the front porch, and firefly glows in the midnight cold. I keep writing all these poems about you that I'll never ever send. I mean, you’ll never belong to this raven bird poet.

I'm sorry, but right now, I'm in a really bad place where even in my sleep, I still call your name.

I'm sorry. 

I mean, it’s not your fault that you’ve fallen for someone else, you know? I mean, I knew from the moment I met you that my hands were too rusty to hold yours, and my teeth clinked like glasses of alcohol. But you held them, anyway, you know? You kissed my knuckles and pretended that I healed. You brushed your lips against mine and told me that it meant something. 

But hey, I mean, it’s not your fault, you know? I bet she smells like your favorite books. I bet she has her name tattooed into you. 

No, please, don’t blame yourself for my mistake. It’s not your fault that I believe everything you say, like: I need you, please don’t leave, I love you. I tell you: I'm just a girl who clings to you too much. 

But it doesn’t really matter, you know? I mean, things may be complicated now with her, but I know that you want to work this out. You always do, right? You always do.

and I hope she loves you gently. I hope she keeps you in her fingertips. I hope she knows what she has before she realizes that she can lose it. I hope she says, “I'm staying.” even when you’re being complicated. I hope she understands that sometimes, you don’t feel like talking. I hope she doesn’t make your bones more rotten than they already are. I hope her name doesn’t leave a scar, just a single love mark on your arm. 

Your bones aren’t constructed with due dates, because you’ve always been so patient. there isn’t a storm in you that isn’t worth loving. And I could've fallen in love even if things weren’t different. 

But that’s the thing, you know? That’s the thing. 

No matter what I do, these poems taste like your name.


	2. no better version of me (moving on)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> healing isn't linear, it takes time

this time,   
you won’t be my ghost   
or the shadow i find in mirrors. 

i won’t search for you   
under streetlights or sidewalks. 

i won’t try to find your name  
in the cracks of my ribcage,   
or the Sunday breakfast you used to always give me.

this time,  
i won’t be seeing your face on my eyelids.

you won’t turn into a burning forest   
because i am perfect summer storm. 

i am not your dandelion girl,   
i am your cigarette smoke.  
i will leave you breathless,  
and wishing for more. 

this time,   
i won’t feel your hands clasping around my wrists  
like handcuffs. 

i won’t feel like  
you’ve been stripping off the last of my freedom.

this time,  
i won’t leave bloody or bruised. 

you will beg for me to come back to you.   
you will grasp my ankles,   
you will wait for me on the shore,

but i am the wildest ocean wave you’ll ever come across, 

and

you won’t handle it, darling. 

you won’t.

because this time,   
you won’t leave me in messy bits or pieces   
where i can no longer identify myself.   
i will no longer belong to your ribcage heart.

this time, this time, darling,

i won’t be the one who’s torn apart.

_i won’t remember you as someone who ripped my heart.  
_ _instead, you’ll be just another forgotten star._


End file.
